


Headlong

by Rroselavy



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-11
Updated: 2010-06-11
Packaged: 2017-10-10 02:03:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/93999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rroselavy/pseuds/Rroselavy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The real reason Aziraphale helps Crowley find the Antichrist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Headlong

Crowley watched forlornly as Aziraphale disappeared into his shop, Queen still blaring on the car's stereo system. The night had been exhilarating, and not only for the paintball contest that they'd landed in the midst of, but also because it was the angel with whom he'd shared the adventure with--Crowley had long realized that he preferred Aziraphale's company to that of anyone on his side. But now, sitting alone in the Bentley, it hit him: if they didn't find the Spawn of Satan and couldn't stop the impending Armageddon, all those years of knowing each other--oh, really, not just _knowing_ each other; their relationship was far more than that, it was … a _friendship_\--but it would all be rendered moot if they no longer had their current positions.

And their friendship--that could very well go the way of the human race, especially once Crowley was punished for his ineptitude. A shiver ran up his spine as he considered the myriad ways an immortal could be made to suffer. Prometheus' punishment paled in comparison.

Seriously? Who loses the Antichrist? Crowley let his head fall back against the posh headrest and sighed dramatically. It really wasn't his fault, this tight spot he was in, but he knew that wasn't going to matter to Him. _He_ didn't sweat the little details--He was only concerned with the end results being what He expected--and right now, Crowley's endgame was looking thinner than the plot of a B-movie. Though, if he had to be in this mess with someone, he was glad it was Aziraphale. Nor did he have to be in it with him, but Aziraphale--bless him--was a good sport in that regard. Dependable. Actually, he was good in a lot of ways, beyond all the angelic qualities he possessed. Though it was some of his _other_ qualities that Crowley liked best--like the way his hip would cant when he placed a hand on it, or the winsome smile that would play on his lips when they were deep in conversation, discussing the philosophical differences of their respective bosses. And that was another thing about Aziraphale: he wasn't judgmental like all those other angels, or even as judgmental as more than a few demons, for that matter.

"Shit, shit, _shit!_" he exclaimed, banging his hands on the fine mahogany-with-ebony-inlay steering wheel.

"Bohemian Rhapsody" had ended, and Crowley ejected the tape before it could continue on to the instrumental version of "God Save the Queen." "Rhapsody" really was the only song on _A Night at the Opera_ worth listening to.

He would miss getting drunk and sobering up with Aziraphale, and all the fine meals they'd shared over the millennia.

He sighed again, thinking about Aziraphale's ruined shirt, then snorted with slight exasperation and shook his head. Even after all the years he'd known Aziraphale, the angel was still an enigma; it was beyond Crowley's comprehension that he wouldn't use his God-given powers to his advantage. Really, what was the point of having power if you didn't use it?

"Dammit!" he hissed. His heart was still beating wildly; in three days the world--as they'd come to know and love it, along with all the humans with all their beautiful faults--was going to Hell in a hand basket. Crowley closed his eyes. The silence was deafening.

This might be the last bit of time they had together.

It was an awful thought, and Crowley realized it made him feel worse than the impending doom that awaited him once He realized that His Spawn was MIA.

"Ah, to hell with it," he said and cut the engine. He didn't want to leave things the way they were, for this to be his or Aziraphale's last memory of each other. Besides, he reasoned, if there were to be a last memory, he might as well make it … well, _memorable_.

Crowley stepped out of the sleek car. His boots _clock_ed over the cobblestones as he approached the shop door. He folded his sunglasses and placed them in his jacket pocket before he rapped on the doorframe.

* * * * *

The book was an amazing find, and Aziraphale couldn't wait to pore over all the prophecies; he was sure they would be helpful. He felt vaguely guilty to be in possession of something that wasn't his, but he alleviated that guilt with a promise he would find the rightful owner--after he and Crowley had managed to save the world.

He pulled the shop's doorshade down to hide from prying eyes and then hurried into his cramped office. In the semi-darkness he fumbled for the switch on his desk lamp for a few seconds before the room was flooded with light. He sat down, laid the book on the blotter and opened it to the first page, then absently rifled through a side-drawer in the ancient oak desk for a notepad. He blindly grabbed one of the pens from the coffee-mug-cum-pencil holder and began to write furiously.

When the first knocks sounded, Aziraphale barely lifted his head from his task. Anyone who needed a book or his consultation on their once-removed maiden great-aunt's collection of first edition Ellery Queens could come back during business hours. They were posted prominently on the neatly lettered, age-yellowed card carefully taped to the glass.

By the fourth round of knocks, the banging was much louder and the din was accompanied by his name.

"Crowley?" he said out loud, breaking the silence in the still room. The demon must have remembered something else. Aziraphale shoved the pen, the pad and the book into the open drawer, and hurried to the shop's entrance.

When he opened the door, Crowley was standing there, fist poised mid-knock, with the strangest expression on his face.

The hair on the back of Aziraphale's neck stood on end.

"Crowley? What is--" Aziraphale never managed the rest of the question because suddenly his lips were engaged in something else altogether. And he would have stepped back, or at least that's what he told himself, except Crowley's arm had swung around his shoulders and was holding him fast. Only, not so fast that Crowley couldn't guide them both inside and close the door with a well-placed heel, all without breaking the lip-lock.

Well, at least they weren't on display.

For all Crowley's brazenness, the kiss was surprisingly tender. Crowley's lips were warm against Aziraphale's, but they weren't burning hot. They were actually a quite pleasant temperature, and Aziraphale didn't even mind when they became more insistent and he felt moisture from Crowley's tongue as it skated over his lips. Surprised, Aziraphale parted them, and Crowley pressed his advantage.

Aziraphale couldn't really be blamed for responding; for one thing, it was rude to just stand there like a statue while someone was kissing you, and for another, Crowley was awfully good at kissing. Aziraphale didn't want to think about how he'd managed to master his technique--in fact, he really didn't want to be thinking at all; it was getting in the way of his enjoyment. But then it dawned on him just how Wrong it was to be kissing a demon--not just any demon, but his Friend--and he managed to worm his hand between their bodies (How tactile-ly _pleasing_ Crowley's chest was! How was it he'd never noticed _that_ before?) and push Crowley away.

"What's that all about?" he asked, hurriedly straightening his clothes that had somehow gotten untidy in the midst of their embrace. He tried and failed to feign indignation. Crowley looked at him with an incredulous expression.

"But-but--you kissed me back!" he exclaimed.

Aziraphale's jaw worked silently, but he found no words were forthcoming. Frustrated, he raised his hand and ran it through his unruly hair. Crowley had a point; he always did. He crossed his arms over his chest.

"I suppose you're right," he said finally. His lips were still tingling from the kiss, and he reminded himself that Crowley was rather good at it. Talented, even, though it wasn't as if _he_ were an experienced judge of that sort of thing. They stood there in silence, still facing each other. Aziraphale's were eyes glued to the floor of his shop, and he noticed for the first time the little confetti flecks of colour in the linoleum tile. The floor was dirty; it could use a good scrubbing.

"So … did you enjoy it?" Crowley asked after a while. When Aziraphale glanced up at him, Crowley was worrying his lower lip between his teeth. It was quite fetching.

"I did."

Crowley's posture relaxed and he smiled nervously.

"But, why … now?"

Crowley wrung his hands. "Because everything we know and lo--and _enjoy_ is going to end in three days," he said glumly.

"Nonsense!" Aziraphale placed his hand on Crowley's forearm. "We'll get to the bottom of this. We'll find him." He thought about the book stowed in the desk in his office. He was certain he'd find clues among the _Prophecies_.

"Oh, please. Spare me the 'as-long-as-we're-both-alive' spiel. Come Saturday, I'm toast. _Burnt_ toast."

Aziraphale gave him an understanding smile, though he didn't believe for one instant that Crowley wouldn't be able to worm his way out of trouble; he had an uncanny knack for it. But, just in case there was some merit to his fears, Aziraphale needed to get back to his research.

"Crowley, you need to leave now," he said, steering him back toward the door. The demon looked stricken. "To contact your minions!" he added quickly. "And I'll contact my people."

"Why can't my 'minions' be people, too?" Crowley asked, his voice tinged with a hint of petulance.

"I thought that's what they were called--on your side." Aziraphale shrugged. "People it is, then." He opened the door and nudged Crowley over the threshold, but Crowley was having none of it. He stopped, obstinately.

"Are you sure you're okay about … what happened?"

"The kiss?" Aziraphale stepped back into his shop and strategically blocked Crowley from going back inside. "It wasn't just a temptation, was it?"

"NO!" Crowley looked offended.

"Just kidding! Honestly, I think we could both use a little levity." Then he brushed his thumb lightly--tentatively--across Crowley's cheek. The gesture felt good, if not just a little naughty, and that naughtiness sent a thrill down Aziraphale's spine.

They really needed to find the Antichrist.

Crowley turned his back, and Aziraphale noticed the pronounced slump of his shoulders.

"Crowley, we'll find him," he said softly.

"You seem quite sure of yourself."

"Oh, I am." Aziraphale stepped forward and brushed his lips against Crowley's. He had good reason to be.


End file.
